


Next

by languageintostillair



Series: After an Almost [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister Are Not Related, F/M, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-Break Up, but again they were never really in a relationship in the first place, so much more angst than the last part and without that much hope, this part is like a coffee shop AU from hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: Brienne had woken up the morning after Jaime asked about coffee—she’d slept an hour, maybe two—and decided it would be best to simply get it over and done with. Like picking up the sweater, coffee with Jaime was just another errand to check off her mental to-do list. It was unfortunate that it was added to that to-do list because of a—well, a slip of the tongue, she’d just leave it at that—but it was still just an errand. That was all. And the longer she put off this errand, she reasoned, the more sleepless nights she’d potentially have to endure. Coffee with Jaime was just one more step to suffer through, to sever him from her life. It couldn’t possibly be more mortifying than the last conversation they had, just before she’d left for Winterfell.She’d survived that. She’ll survive this.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: After an Almost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662541
Comments: 75
Kudos: 173





	Next

**Author's Note:**

> So much for “after I finish The Assignment”. To everyone clamouring for a sequel: be careful what you wish for.

They don’t have coffee next week, or next month, or even next year.

They have coffee that weekend.

Brienne had woken up the morning after Jaime asked—she’d slept an hour, maybe two—and decided it would be best to simply get it over and done with. Like picking up the sweater, coffee with Jaime was just another errand to check off her mental to-do list. It was unfortunate that it was added to that to-do list because of a—well, a slip of the tongue, she’d just leave it at that—but it was still just an errand. That was all. And the longer she put off this errand, she reasoned, the more sleepless nights she’d potentially have to endure. Coffee with Jaime was just one more step to suffer through, to sever him from her life. It couldn’t possibly be more mortifying than the last conversation they had, just before she’d left for Winterfell. 

She’d survived that. She’ll survive this.

Her message to Jaime that morning didn’t start with _Hey._ Instead, she dove straight into: **If you’re free this weekend, I can do coffee.**

Cold. Distant. Necessary.

 **Yes** , he replied almost immediately. Once again, she had to stop herself from reading into it. It scared her, how easy it had been to fall into old patterns. **Name the time and place,** his message said, **I’ll be there.**

The time she named was Saturday, at three in the afternoon. He’d told her to pick a neutral ground, so she did. She decided on the largest coffee chain in Westeros—it felt the most impersonal—and picked a branch that is roughly the same distance from their respective apartments, assuming Jaime never moved. (She didn’t check.) It’s a location they’d never been to—not that they’d ever frequented this chain, at least not together—and probably never even walked by, as far as she can recall. In any case, every branch looks the same. This is the kind of chain that has one store within a stone’s throw of the next, and the quality of coffee that one would expect from such a scale of production. 

It’s neutral ground. Hells, it might as well be enemy territory. It’s the complete antithesis of their usual cafe—no, the cafe that _had been_ their usual. An independent, pretentious, probably overpriced affair (that last part never mattered much to Jaime, of course), but damn—their coffee was good. She’d missed it, when she was in Winterfell. She can’t go back, though. She wouldn’t want to risk seeing him there, intentionally or otherwise.

The quality of coffee doesn’t matter, anyway. When Brienne has coffee with Jaime, she won’t be _drinking_ coffee. She’ll be anxious enough without the caffeine in her system.

On Saturday, she arrives ten minutes early. She knows Jaime will be five minutes late as always, so it gives her more than enough time to contemplate their choice of table. She can’t decide if she should pick something that’s as private as possible, or one that’s surrounded by people on all sides. Which would be safer? What would they talk about? Would it matter if someone heard—would the presence of eavesdroppers feel like protection, or invasion? Which would be worse—to lay everything bare, or to make small talk as if they were mere acquaintances?

She has no clue what to expect at all. She has no strategy. She hadn’t known how to even begin devising a strategy.

In the end, Brienne reaches a compromise—a table in the corner, but against the window that looks out onto the street. Private and public all at once, though the street is quiet for a Saturday afternoon in the city. 

She’s just sitting down when she sees Jaime come through the door.

She looks down at her phone to check the time. 

He’s three minutes early.

She tries not to read into it.

She sits and waits for him to notice her, rather than calling out for him, if only because her voice is caught in her throat. He’s—gods, he’s so beautiful. Back when they were friends, she’d trained herself not to see it. It was so much easier that way. 

She sees it now.

When he spots her, and walks towards her, she wants to throw up again. Every single thing he’s wearing—his jacket, his shirt, his jeans, his shoes—seems tailor-made for him, and probably is. Then again, she knows he could be wearing a burlap sack and she’d still want to throw up.

“Hey,” he says, when he’s close enough. “Thanks for…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he gestures at the table. “Have you ordered?”

“No—” or at least, she attempts to say no, but it comes out as nothing more than air. “No,” she tries again.

“I’ll get it. The usual?”

She wants to tell him to stop saying that. The _usual_ cafe, the _usual_ order. There is no such thing as _usual_ when she hasn’t seen him in two years.

“Just an iced tea, please. Thanks.”

He gives her a look. Like he knows what she said really was, _we don’t have a ‘usual’ anymore._ Then he turns and walks to the counter to place their orders.

They sit with their drinks for a long time before either of them starts speaking.

“So,” Jaime starts, when he’s already a third of the way through his coffee. “How’ve you been? Still living in the same place?”

She nods. The same place is a two-bedroom apartment she’d bought with the small inheritance she’d received when her father passed. It wasn’t the most central of locations, but it was a good size considering the price. “I was renting it out. But I’m back there now.”

“That’s good. And how…” he swallows, “how was Winterfell?”

“Good.” _Good_. No other adjective exists. _Good_ is cold, distant, necessary. _Cold_ , she could have said. To which Jaime might have replied with something sarcastic, such as, _A place with ‘winter’ in its name? I’ll bet_. Or something even more blunt, such as, _It’s why I hate the North._

At least, the Jaime of two years ago might have said those things. Brienne isn’t sure how he’d respond now.

“Good,” he echoes, and she can’t tell if he’s teasing her for how brief her answer was, or merely acknowledging it. “I take it you did well with school.”

“I did.” She’d gone for her master’s. She was accepted into the programme even before she’d realised the true depth of her feelings for Jaime, but it was a convenient enough reason to leave him behind.

“I’m sure you were leagues ahead of your classmates,” he says.

“I might have been. But I’m a few years older than most of them.” She swirls her straw in her half-drunk iced tea, thinks of how she’d decided to work for a few years before applying, and how she might not have met Jaime if she hadn’t done so. “Doesn’t feel like it counts.”

“It counts. You always did sell yourself short, Brienne.”

She looks up sharply then. He’s right—she’s come to realise how right he was about that—but she wants so much to tell him off for, for _daring to understand her_ , before she really understood herself. And then, she notices something.

Jaime is lifting his coffee cup to his lips, with his left hand. And he’s not wearing his ring. 

She can still see the ghost of it there. The slightest tan line.

She wants to throw her iced tea in his face.

She puts her hands in her lap, away from her glass, to resist that temptation. “Why did you do that?” she asks, steady as she possibly can, lifting her chin in his direction. She can feel all the resentment leaking into her voice, all the resentment she has no right to feel. Meeting Jaime for coffee—it wasn’t supposed to go this way. Yes, she had no strategy. But even that lack-of-a-strategy hadn’t involved jumping straight into _this_. 

“Do what?” he replies. He actually has the audacity to look clueless.

“You—” she grips her thighs— “you took off your ring.”

“I’m not married anymore,” he shrugs. Like it’s the most straightforward thing in the world.

“You were wearing it— _three days ago_ , Jaime.”

“Force of habit.” He sets the coffee cup down on its saucer. “You reminded me.”

“ _I_ reminded _you_?” _What the fuck does that mean?_ Brienne has to laugh in disbelief at how absurd this is, and how much Jaime doesn’t seem to realise how absurd this is. “Why would you need _me_ to remind _you_ that you’re not married?” 

Jaime stares at her, and she holds his gaze. 

The woman sitting at the table next to them vacates her seat.

“This was a mistake,” he says finally, tension in his jaw, his voice something strained. _This was a mistake_. Brienne all but recoils at his words. “No—I didn’t mean— _fuck_. I’m sorry. Can we start over?”

“Start over?” _This was a mistake._ “From what point?” She might as well be spitting poison from her lips. It feels like she is. She has no right—she has no _claim_ to him—and yet—

“I meant, this conversation.” He sits back, folds his arms, narrows his eyes at her. “But it sounds like you’re thinking of a point much, much earlier.”

 _I wish I’d never met you_ , she thinks, though she knows it’s a lie. “You’re right,” she says. “This was a mistake.” She should never have picked up the stupid sweater. She should never have agreed to coffee. She wishes she hadn’t done either of those things, and that thought doesn’t feel like a lie to her.

Brienne stands up abruptly; the back of her chair hits the wall behind her, and she winces. They’ve barely been here fifteen minutes. To think she’d thought of this as an _errand_. No—this is some special torture, tailor-made for her. She doesn’t say goodbye, just takes a step towards the exit and—

Jaime’s hand is around her wrist.

“Let go,” she says, as firmly and calmly as she can. _Let go. Don’t touch me._

_Let me go._

He loosens his grip, but only a little, and she forces herself to meet his eyes, to witness the anger in them. “So you’re just going to leave again? Just like that?”

He says that like she’d left something behind, when she went to Winterfell. He says that like he hadn’t told her he didn’t have feelings for her, just days before she left.

“Just like that,” she repeats. Then she wrests her arm from his grasp, and walks out the door, as fast as she can without breaking into a run. Her wrist burns where his fingers held it.

She makes it a block before he catches up with her, overtakes her, blocks her path.

“Don’t do this, Brienne. Talk to me.”

 _No. Just let me go._ “What for? What’s the point?” She never thought she could sound so pleading, so pathetic. And she sure as all seven hells never thought she’d sound like this in public. The street is still quiet, but that doesn’t mean it’s _empty_. She darts her eyes around her, at the handful of passersby caught between avoiding her and Jaime, and watching them curiously. “I just—I don’t want to do this here, Jaime.”

In actuality, she’d meant, _I don’t want to do this at all_. But Jaime had heard her say _here_ , and he offers: “My car is just round the corner. We can sit in there and talk. Please.” When she says nothing—just stands there—he adds, “I promise I’ll never bother you again after today. If that’s what you want.”

She lets him lead her to his car. It’s still the same car that he had two years ago—one of his more sensible ones—but she hasn’t been in a car as nice as this for a long time. Yet, when she sits in the passenger seat, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“Look,” Jaime sighs, when he’s settled into the driver’s seat. “A lot has—a lot has happened since we last spoke. Cersei and I—”

Then he stops. Brienne stays quiet. _Cersei_. She digs her nails into her arm.

He sighs again. “I wear my wedding ring to work because—because it’s easier than explaining that my marriage is over, so soon after it began.”

It’s a ludicrous explanation, and makes no sense based on what she knows of Jaime. Based on the Jaime she knew. “Since… since when have you cared so much about things like _that_?” The Jaime she knew would never have bothered about how things looked to other people. Least of all to the people he worked with, and who worked for him.

“I _don’t_ care. But I—I felt—tired, okay? I still am, and… it seemed easier to just keep wearing it. I… I wouldn’t have worn it if I’d known I’d see you that day.”

She wishes he’d stop doing that—putting things on her, as if she was the centre of everything. That falsehood infuriates her. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” she demands, in a whisper. “If you’d known you’d see me?”

Jaime flexes all of his fingers, and places them awkwardly on the steering wheel, as if he doesn’t know where else he could possibly put them. “I could never lie to you, Brienne. You know that.”

Does she? “You can lie by omission,” she tells him, before she really has the chance to think that answer through.

He whips to face her. “Because I never told you about her?”

She wants to fold herself up, climb into the glove compartment, hide there forever. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.” He hadn’t owed her anything about Cersei, really. They were just friends, after all. Jaime could withhold all the information about Cersei from Brienne, if he wanted to.

“You told me you didn’t want to know.”

“That was later. At the end. I just needed to—” She just needed to go. And she hadn’t wanted anything except confirmation on his feelings, or lack thereof. That was all she needed to bring with her to Winterfell.

“Would you have wanted to hear me talk about her? Before?”

No. It would have been too painful, even when she hadn’t fully admitted her feelings to herself. It would have been a dull sort of pain, and she would have felt perplexed about the source of it, and perhaps that would have been worse. The confusion. The resultant inability to set a boundary.

No, she wouldn’t have wanted to hear him talk about it. But, irrational as it may be, she resented him for not telling her all the same.

“Forget it,” she repeats. Jaime isn’t the only one that’s tired. She doesn’t want to talk about Cersei, or Jaime, or even herself. “Could we just—let this go? It’s been two years, Jaime.”

“I miss you.”

 _This again._ “Stop.”

“I do. I miss you. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Does she dare say it? What does she have to lose? He already knows; he’s known for two years. “You might miss me, but. It’s not—not in the, the right way. Not in the way I wanted you to, back then.”

“What if it is?”

 _Fuck him._ “Jaime. You told me—you told me you didn’t have feelings for me.” She’s back there again, two years ago. That conversation at his apartment. It couldn’t be called a conversation, not really. It was filled with silence more than anything.

“I know what I said. It was—I won’t lie to you. It was true at the time. I… I thought it was true when I said it.”

 _No. Fuck him._ “Then why are you doing this? Why are you making it seem like—”

“ _You left me._ You just—you gave me no say. And then you cut me off so completely. So _easily_.”

He says it like it’s a grievance he’s been nursing against her for the past two years. 

“You didn’t—” She almost ends that with _love me_ , but she stops herself. That would have been unreasonable. _Nothing ever happened._ “You said you didn’t return my feelings,” she reminds him once more, feebly. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything _but_ leave.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jaime looking dead ahead through the windscreen.

“But you—you never gave me the chance,” he says. “Before… before you told me. All that time before.”

It’s her worst nightmare. 

Jaime couldn’t love her, because of _her_. 

But not in the way she‘d assumed. Not because of how she looked. Or behaved, or spoke, or thought. 

_Because she never gave him the chance._

“You—you don’t get to put that on me.” She’s struggling to believe in the validity of her words, but she forces them out anyway. “You don’t get to make that into—into _my fault._ ” She’d spent so much of the past two years trying to make herself believe that it _wasn’t her fault_. It’s just the way these things go. Sometimes you fall in love with someone who can’t love you back. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to her.

And now he’s telling her it was _because of her._ Because she wouldn’t let him.

 _Fuck him,_ she thinks again. Weaker than all the times she’d said it in her head before.

Jaime doesn’t apologise, or acknowledge her statements in any other way. “Tell me you don’t miss me too,” he says instead. As if—as if missing-each-other is the only thing that matters. “Tell me you don’t miss me, and we can _let this go_. Just like you want.”

She opens the car door then, steps out, and slams it behind her. It’s the only answer she can give.

**Author's Note:**

> *nervous laughter* I’m so sorry. I’ll try to get a third part out soon, because I too feel uncomfortable leaving the story here. But no promises.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/), if you’d prefer to scream at me there.


End file.
